


Someone Who's Turning

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Marvel, X-Force (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys watch TV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Who's Turning

**Author's Note:**

> The "salsa shark" belongs to Kevin Smith, who used it in the movie "Clerks."

There's this world of romance that nobody's ever quite explained to  
him.  He knows about love, or sort of does.  It's the thing that ties  
you to other people, makes you miss them.  Makes you come back to them  
even when you just fight and hurt and leave again.  Makes somebody  
come out of the house and hug you something fierce ten minutes after  
they called you every filthy thing they could think of and publicly  
wished you'd never been born.  So: love, but not necessarily healthy.    
Familial.

He can remember his parents together, at least in the sort-of way that  
accounts for most of his childhood.  Long, hard looks at each other  
that he could never decipher.  Brushes of his hand across her shoulder  
on the way out the door.  But everything he can half-honestly name as  
affection happened between his father and his father's men.  Huge-  
armed, full-body hugs in greeting, playful wrestling, attention to  
moods and wounds.  He remembers his father vaulting the kitchen table  
and bolting outside to wrap himself around some cousin in greeting,  
while his mother lurked like a ghost in the door.

He guesses it's the sort of thing that marks you.

What's really telling, though, is that just about everything he knows  
about sex, and the human part of it they call romance, he learned from  
television.  And considering he's the one who points out to Shatty  
that TV is this distorting mirror that it doesn't pay to look into too  
closely, that's probably a Bad Thing.  But you make do.  During his  
occasional quiet times with the Right, he'd curl up in a corner and  
shiver and watch whatever daytime dreck he vaguely thought might help  
him.  Mostly soaps.  In Spanish, when he could get them.  What he got  
out of that was a sort of soft-focus approximation of desire.  Rooms  
filled with candles, roses on beds, the occasional white horse to  
sweep someone away on.  

Later, he went hunting for things he thought might teach him better.    
Girl movies, because Terry had a lot of them stashed in the den.  Art-  
house style romances.  Porn, eventually.  

With the result that he's got the mechanics down, but the inner  
workings of courtship are a pretty strange mess whenever he peers at  
them.  The fact that he's gotten himself laid a couple of times in  
spite of his ineptness is nothing short of a miracle.  Even then, he  
managed it mostly by re-working himself in his father's image.  Big  
steps, big gestures, extra force behind them, nothing post-coital if  
he could possibly help it.  He remembers hitching home after the last  
time, wide-eyed and not-shaking, sick at the smell of this stranger  
all over him.

He came inside with his jacket and both arms wrapped around himself,  
slipped past the den and stared in for a second at Shatty and whatever  
he was watching.  Wanted to go in and didn't.  Went off to shower  
instead and ignored the soft, "Julio?" that carried down the hall  
after him.

He stood under the shower that night and tried to think of *anything*  
that he could use to patch up this thing he didn't know.  He  
remembered visiting Westchester and meeting Scott and Jean Summers,  
but he also remembered watching them and realizing how much of what  
they had was based on their psychic link.  Something he wasn't ever  
going to have.  He'd watched Cable and Domino together, but he was  
just about bright enough to figure out that whatever they were doing  
probably wasn't something you wanted to imitate.  

What he's learned about love from Cable and Dom comes down to a single  
story, the one from when they were staying with the X-Men about the  
infirmary and the gun.  He remembers it because he was the one who got  
to watch it from the end of the hall.  Morning after X-Force's latest  
bust-up, too damn early.  He would've rather been sleeping, but his  
back teeth were floating, and he thought if he walked softly enough,  
with his eyes on half-open, that he could make it to the bathroom and  
back without ever having to really wake up.

He did blink, though, at Cable and Dom facing each other down in the  
hallway.  Cable in sweats and a t-shirt, Dom in flannel pants and  
wife-beater.  Pyjamas, or their nearest thing to it.  Cable's hand  
heavy enough against the wall that he had to be in six kinds of pain.

What he heard was, "How bad?"

"I'll live."

"That's not what I asked you."

"Ribs're touchy.  I'll be alright."  Pissy Cable-voice that dripped  
with whatever the Askani version of *fuck off* was.

"Have you been to the infirmary?"

"Nope."

"We'll go now."

"I'm *fine*, Dom."

"We're going *now*."  Emphasized with a wave of the gun she must have  
had stuck in the waistband of her pyjama pants.

"Dom . . ."

"Now."  Levelling the gun at him.

"I'll be fine."

Cable was in the process of straightening -- too slowly for a man who  
was actually OK -- and trying to turn when she shot him.  Through the  
fleshy part of his human arm, very cleanly, in a way that had to hurt  
like a motherfuck.  You could tell especially from the sheer volume of  
the not-English words Cable howled at her.  While she ripped his shirt  
and used it as a bandage and hauled his ass down to the infirmary.    
Where she got to be right because Cable'd ruptured something fairly  
important with the broken ribs, and Dr McCoy figured it would have  
killed him in a couple more hours.

He knows that Domino's still not sorry about that, and that Cable  
hasn't forgiven her, and anyway that love's closer to what he learned  
from his father's men than to what he learned from his parents.

At night sometimes Rictor sleeps curled up and tries to imagine how  
another person could possibly fit around him.

He comes downstairs tonight, then, not because he's looking for  
romance in his life or for even clues about how to find it, but just  
because he's lonely.  Finds Star where he always is, locked in front  
of the television like it's some kind of communication device with the  
mothership or something.

If he hasn't kicked the TV addiction yet, at least Star's picked up  
some of the etiquette of watching with other people.  He knows to look  
up and acknowledge company, to either hog the couch if he doesn't want  
company or scootch if he does.  Rictor's even seen him share the  
remote.  That once.

"Where's everybody?"

"I believe that Theresa 'dragged' Tabitha to a movie.  Tabitha did not  
seem terribly enthusiastic; she argued about what they would see while  
Theresa pulled her out the door."

Rictor nods and drops himself onto the couch.  He's stopped noticing  
that Star always scootches over for him.  "Everybody else?"

"I don't know.  I have only seen Tabitha and Theresa."

"You're a regular society page, you know that?"

"Julio?"

"Never mind."

It doesn't matter, particularly.  The current whereabouts of Jimmy and  
'Berto are less important than the current abundance of extra couch  
pillows and the nachos he can steal from Star with fairly minimal  
effort.  Just by folding himself over his own lap and grabbing while  
Star's absorbed in whatever significance the current car ad has.  

Salsa.  Life is good.  He finds an unbroken chip and dips it into the  
jar, making the triangular top circle like a fin.

"Man goes in cage.  Cage goes in salsa.  Sharks in the salsa.  Our  
shark."

The silver look he gets in answer is truly bizarre, and it's all he  
can do not to choke on the chip while he tries to laugh and keep  
breathing.

Goes back to watching whatever this is.  Something with a lot of angry  
police officers with deep personal problems that make his look like  
suburban teen angst.  Not what he'd think Shatterstar would like,  
because in the back of his mind, Star's addiction relies on fast  
images, strings of commercials or music videos, or anything else that  
doesn't keep the same shot for more than fifteen seconds.  His  
concentration's striking only because it doesn't synch with his  
incredibly short attention span.

Still licking salsa juice off his back teeth when he's rearranging  
himself and he ends up leaning on Shatty's folded legs.  Looks up and  
discovers that Star's actually watching him and not the TV.  With that  
look that says he's about to ask something profoundly disturbing,  
except that instead he just adjusts himself and lets Rictor settle  
back against him.   

It's a measure of the weirdness of his upbringing, he supposes, that  
this feels normal.  Shatterstar's big arm under his head while he just  
lays there against another man's body and watches television.

He isn't sure exactly when Star's hand curls up around his head to  
play with his hair, but as long as nothing's blocking his view, he  
can't think of a reason to complain.  And it feels good.  Friendly.  

Door slam.  Thumps in the hallways, and then, "Shatty-man!"

Roberto.  Which makes Rictor want to straighten up and get out of this  
. . . whatever it is.  Slouch in the opposite corner like he should  
be.  But Star's other hand settles on hip to hold him down, and the  
fingers in his hair never stop moving.  And after a second he realizes  
that no one can seem him over the back of the couch, and as long as he  
doesn't move, he might as well not be there at all.

Then Jimmy, more softly.  "Hey Shatty.  You seen Ric anywhere?"

"Hmmm?  Oh.  No."

"OK.  Thanks."

More pounding, eventually upstairs and moving away.  Rictor rolls onto  
his back and stares up into the silver-eyed face above him.  "Amigo,  
you *lied* to them!"

"Are you not the one who tells me I should not always obey the rules  
so strictly?"

Rictor snorts, "Si, but . . ."  And stops, because he doesn't know  
'but what.'  Stays where he is instead of rolling back to watch the  
screen, just tilts his head now and then to catch a glimpse of  
whatever's going on.  He's surprised at how warm he is, lying like  
this, like he's been wrapped up in something.  Not sure whether to  
arch like a well-fed animal or fall asleep.

The hand that was on his hip before he moved is on his belly now,  
rubbing gently against his t-shirt.  Just absently, as far as he can  
tell.  Star's attention is so focussed on the TV that the rest of the  
room might as well not exist.  And it's not really anything, just an  
extra little pleasure circling his navel, and as long as he doesn't  
comment on it, it doesn't really matter.

They hit an hour-mark somewhere in here, because the program changes.    
News.  Ten o'clock, or maybe eleven; he doesn't know what channel  
they're watching.  Screen-flicker while Star channel-surfs, looking  
for cultural content.  Settles in to some kind of god-awful scifi  
thing with cheap special effects.  Scary only because it looks a  
little too much like their life sometimes.

And just sound for a while, because Rictor's happy to close his eyes  
and listen to the room.  If he falls asleep like this, it'll be OK.    
It wouldn't be the first time he's fallen asleep in front of the TV,  
and if Star doesn't wake him and make him go to bed, Domino will  
sometime in the course of the night.  

He isn't sure quite when Star's hand shifts a little and slides under  
his t-shirt to rub at his skin, but he's aware gradually of the hairs  
on his belly following the path of that calloused palm.  If he moves  
with it, just a bit, that's only the warm-animals response asserting  
itself.  And maybe a bit because it feels so good.  Even better when  
it slides up his chest and then down to push a little at the waist of  
his jeans.  Pushes and pushes and finally edges under the waistband,  
just an inch the first time.  A little farther on every pass, getting  
deeper into the rough hair underneath.  Elastic catching on the rough  
edges of Star's fingers.

Not at all sure when he got hard, but he definitely is.  And it's got  
to be obvious.  One more deep pass and Star's hand is going to be at  
least damp when it re-emerges.  All that bare skin to cover before the  
hand goes back, and when exactly did his shirt get rucked up so far?

"Madre de Dios, amigo . . ."

"Shhh."  Just a quick brush of the moving hand against his mouth, a  
warning to be quiet.  He gets a flash of his own body-smell on that  
hand, which shouldn't be nearly as intense or arousing as it is.

Tilts his head just a little to confirm that Shatty's hard, too.    
Pressing the denim out, close to his cheek.  Close enough that he can  
rub against it without really changing position.  While that hand on  
his body works under his jeans again and brushes his cock, and stays  
there for a couple of very serious extra seconds.  One long, blunt  
finger deliberately rubbing the head.

"Dios . . ."

"Do you need me to help you be quiet?"  A genuine question, not a  
warning.  Silver eyes locking on his own.  He shakes his head.    
"Alright."

He's aware of the extent to which he's cradled against this man.  His  
whole body.  Arm under his neck, hand just brushing his face,  
shoulders across thighs.  While the other hand unzips his jeans and  
pushes his underwear out of the way and pulls him gently into the air.    
And strokes him.  Just a palm, then just four fingers flattened  
together.  Against the shaft.  Against the root, the head.  Instant of  
agonizingly wonderful pleasure while there's pressure between his cock  
and balls.  

Star's sort-of-free hand keeps just brushing his face.  Brushes his  
hair when he turns to rub his face against that hard-on lurking at the  
edge of his vision.  Soft, teasing gestures that end up being more  
tender than Rictor expects them to be.  While the other hand gets very  
businesslike around his cock.  Holding him firmly, stroking him hard  
and very fast.  Every rub of a callous against him jacking up his  
spine and every nerve in him.

So he concentrates on breathing, and not making as much noise as he  
really wants to.  Just releases all the screams as hisses through his  
teeth.  While his hips twist around after that hand and his weight  
moves farther back towards his shoulders, letting him push *up*, into  
that touch, just desperate for it.  

Rub of something perfect and almost-sharp against the big, too-  
vulnerable vein on the underside.

"Jesu Christi . . ."  Very soft, but impossible to swallow it.  Not  
while his hips jerk convulsively, almost tearing his back out of  
alignment, and Star's catching his come very precisely in the palm of  
his hand.  Then reaching with the same hand to grab one of the paper  
towels that were serving as napkins for the potential salsa mess and  
wiping himself off.  Then back, with the formerly-wet, warm hand  
resting on Rictor's belly while silver eyes stare friendly-curious  
down at him.

He scootches down, shifting his head enough to free Shatty's other  
arm, and the hand that's been teasing him all this while is suddenly  
there, against his mouth.  So easy to just open his mouth and kiss the  
palm.

"Madre de Dios, Shatty . . ."

What he gets is a quick, surprisingly shy smile.  A moment's pause.    
After which Star raises the kissed hand very carefully and presses it  
to his cheek.

He has to get up.  Can't *see* like this.  Fuck the television, but he  
can't see Star either.  Curls himself upright using all the abdominals  
Cable insists on him developing and turns to look at the man beside  
him.  Gets a faceful of big-eyed, hesitant almost-embarrassment before  
registering that in this particular moment, Star's eyes are  
startlingly blue.  So: wired-up and emotional, and -- for whatever  
reason -- not hard anymore.

Star gets a look at him and goes almost flying off the couch.  Doesn't  
stop until he's got his back to the curtained window, both arms around  
himself, staring in what has to be embarrassment at Rictor.  Who gets  
up and comes after him.  His shirt slides back towards his belly while  
he moves, but never quite settles into its original casual hang.    
Finds himself pacing across the den, towards the man staring at him.    
Steps in close, one hand on Star's hip, and lays the other against his  
belly.  Slides it down, under his jeans, until he's sure that Star's  
current lack of hardness has nothing to do with revulsion and a lot to  
do with a pair of jeans that are going to need washing.  

He doesn't think TV's ever featured a first kiss quite like this one.    
In the screen-lit dark of the den, with his pants open and his soft  
cock still hanging out, against a guy who just creamed his jeans.    
Whose hands come up to cradle his head in the middle of the kiss, but  
more hesitantly than any big-jawed soap actor could ever manage.    
Startlingly human, and tentative, and passionate like you can't  
capture on film.  Realizing like Rictor's realizing that it's actually  
possible to love another human being like this.


End file.
